jeunesse!' cried Kallomyetsev, and he pulled off his right glove.
Again Valentina Mihilovna faintly fluttered her eyelids. She was in the habit of making rather free use of her marvellous eyes.
'Semyon Petrovitch,' she observed, 'may I ask you why it is that in speaking Russian you use so many French words? I fancy . . . excuse my saying so . . . that's gone out of fashion.'
'Why? why? Every one has not such a perfect mastery of our mother-tongue as you, for instance. As for me, I recognise the Russian language as the language of imperial decrees, of government regulations; I prize its purity. I do homage to Karamzin! . . . But the Russian, so to say, everyday language . . . does it really exist? How, for instance, could you translate my exclamation de tout a l'heure? C'est un mot! It's a word! . . . Fancy!'
'I should say: that's a clever saying.'
Kallomyetsev laughed.
'A clever saying! Valentina Mihalovna! But don't you feel there's . . . something scholastic directly. . . . All the raciness has gone. . ..'
'Well, you won't convince me. But what is Marianna doing?' She rang the bell; a page appeared.
'I gave orders to ask Marianna Vikentyevna
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